Straight Shooter
by Kato Molotov
Summary: [1x07 AU. Written for Summer Kink Meme '14] Beckett intends to teach Castle a lesson after he bests her at the firing range. Things don't go quite according to plan.


**Prompt**: 1x07: Beckett is turned on by Castle's shooting skills and he tells her he's a good shot elsewhere too. She makes him prove it and he comes on her breasts. Author's choice how they get there.

* * *

"You're a _very_ good teacher."

Oscillating rapidly between impressed and enraged, she gapes at his paper target and his stupid, self-satisfied smirk. She's definitely not feeling a bit hot under the collar because of it, she tells herself, ignoring the part of her that says she wouldn't need to clarify it if she weren't.

She settles on neutrally impressed for half a second before her brain short-circuits entirely when he leans in and whispers, "_I'm an even better shot without the gun,"_ while swaggering easily out of the firing range, probably to camp out at her desk with that stupid look on his face and wait for his evidence photos.

Of all the arrogant, self-absorbed, incredibly inappropriate things…

He's so full of himself, it's sickening. Someone is going to have to knock him down a peg if she's going to be forced to work with him, and Ryan and Esposito are already compromised. Montgomery too. So are the Chief, and even the Mayor. That's how he weaseled his way in in the first place. It's just one big boys' club, isn't it?

She was being _friendly_ when she put her hands on him, manipulating him into proper position to fire the gun under the assumption that he needed help with that like he does with everything else. He probably played dumb just so she would touch him. She doesn't know whether that qualifies as workplace harassment, but she puts the idea of reporting him for it to rest, since she was the one who actually touched him. Handled him. Positioned… fuck it. She can't think of a wording for what she did that makes it seem any better.

He's presumptuous. So presumptuous. If he thinks just because he got her to put her hands on him and feel his arms (not that she was _trying,_ it just _happened_), that he's going to put her off her game - that she's frustrated enough to be flustered by it - then he's got another thing coming.

He probably thinks she's going to fall prey to his charms and let him take her to bed, if he can just build her up with enough "accidental" touches and juvenile tricks like getting her to position his arms and body at the firing range. Probably thinks he's god's gift. Beckett bets he's never been insulted about his performance, lackluster though it surely is. His opinion of himself is far too high for it to possibly be backed up by reality. Not that he knows that, of course. He's probably spent his entire perfect life having that massive… _ego_, stroked.

He's probably terrible. He spends his life surrounded by a parade of press-friendly bimbos - impressed by his money and fame and superficial charm and what she _supposes_ are objectively good looks (not that she's noticed) – all ready to suck up to him like there's no tomorrow. _Suck_ up, literally as much as figuratively. They'll lie until they're blue in the face, telling them how good he is, how big he is, how much they like it and really like him as a person too. Nobody tells him the truth, too preoccupied with their own interests to put him in his place.

Yes, Castle needs a lesson. And she'll be the one to teach him. She is indeed, _a very good teacher._

* * *

She spends far too much of the rest of the night and a good part of the next day thinking of ways to get him right where she wants him.

It's a tricky business, figuring out a way to make her plan work. She can't outright proposition him. No, she's got to make it seem like she just fell into a compromising position, as if by his own good luck.

She has to lose a wager of some kind, she finally admits to herself. There's no other way. Losing gracefully has never been a strong suit, but for the greater good, she'll sacrifice. Besides - a temporary, well-calculated loss is nothing in comparison to the sweet victory of knocking him on his (totally not perfect) ass. It'll get his guard down too. Two birds, one stone. He'll never see it coming.

The man's a better shot, no question about it. (It's the best argument she's ever seen for gun control, that this idiot has obviously had access to one at some point. She's shocked he didn't shoot himself in the foot.) She won't win on a rematch, but he doesn't know that. He thinks she was distraught over the case when he surprised her down there – tired, at the end of a long day, and not really concentrating.

It's a perfect trap, and one the jackass will never suspect he's playing right into.

* * *

"Hey Castle," Becektt needles as their lunch break nears the next morning, catching his attention with a flirty undertone after she spots him hanging out on Ryan and Esposito's desk, undoubtedly elaborating some tale of his exploits, "can I talk to you for a moment?"

It's pathetic how quickly he jumps on that, scurrying across the floor to follow her into the deserted stairwell.

"How can I be of service to the Detective?" he grins.

Beckett drops the seductress act, replacing it with firey challenge.

"I want a rematch," she bites out at him as if she's bitter (she almost isn't), "I was all kinds of off the other night. You got your evidence photos, you got to show them off to your criminal friends. Now I get something I want."

Castle's arrogant, fashionably-unshaven face (the nerve of people who look deliberately scruffy) lights up like a little boy on Christmas morning. Good. He's buying it.

"What are your terms, milady?"

"If I win, you stay in the car when you are told. You don't interrupt interrogations. You go home when I have paperwork instead of distracting me at my desk. For a month. And you give me - the character you're basing loosely on me - a more respectable name than _Nikki Heat._"

His impassive poker face falters for just a second at the last, but just as quickly it passes, replaced by a reckless smirk that makes her want to slap it off his face.

"And if I win?" he asks, his voice suddenly all too low and gravelly.

"If you win – which has a snowball's chance in hell of happening – then…" she pauses as if she hasn't even considered the possibility of losing and needs to think of something suitably equal to his end of the bargain, "then I'll let you show me how good a shot you really are."

And that does the trick. The writer falters just a bit, swaying on the spot as she spins on her four-inch heel and struts out like she owns the place, swinging her lean hips just enough to give him a view.

"You coming, Castle?"

He scrambles to catch up, falls in step behind her like a man possessed, feet carrying him on autopilot down five flights into the basement where the firing range is housed.

Dumb puppy.

Whipping out her service piece with ferocity unnecessary, she hooks a paper target up and hands him the weapon.

"Do your worst."

Predictably, his shots are impeccable, tightly-clustered in the 10-ring, grouping she's seen only off the likes of ex-Special Forces Esposito and a few professionals they had train her at the Academy. Beckett is grudgingly forced to admit she respects his skill and finds herself distractedly wondering where he learned. If they ever get in another situation like the kitchen standoff a few weeks prior, he might actually be of use. That is, assuming she can't get him to stay in the car. That's a hope which she's largely resigned into the category of unlikely, but at least she knows he's not as completely hapless as he looks and could hold his own in a pinch.

The legendary fierce Beckett pride won't let her not try in earnest to beat him. Call it enforced method acting; the competitive spirit in her won't allow her to throw it even though she _wants_ to lose. But, either way, really, she wins. After all, she set this little wager up to benefit herself either way. If by chance she matches or beats him, she gets a bit more peace around the precinct and she'll just have to come up with another lead-in for her little plan.

It's a good match, she thinks with a mixture of pride and irritation; she did better than she expected. Perhaps real competition brings out the better in her. Still, his was just marginally better.

"Looks like it's snowing in hell!" he gloats.

She could always shoot him in the foot and say it was an accident, she muses angrily. Her word against his. He may be poker buddies with the Mayor, and Montgomery, and the Chief, but her badge still counts for something. Alas, it's a hopeless fantasy – she's too lazy to do the paperwork and clean up the blood.

Congratulating herself instead on a passable performance when she concedes begrudgingly and responds with the proper amount of outrage and annoyance as he lords his victory over her like the childish jackass he is, Beckett sighs.

"Let's get this over with," she growls, stalking off toward the basement restrooms.

"Oh, I don't think so," Castle's smooth voice gloats, "you never gave me a timeframe to collect on my winnings."

She assumed he'd drop his pants right then and there upon his victory, stumble all over himself in eagerness to claim his prize. This new, patient side of Rick Castle was not a contingency she accounted for.

Still, she won. She's the one who knows the plot. She's read ahead to the ending while he's stuck on chapter one. And she'll give him his well-deserved kick in the ego, even if he catches her off-guard with the time and place.

* * *

When Castle suggested, under a façade of gentlemanly concern, that their suspect could sweat it out in the tank for a while so that she could change back into her clothes when they got back to the precinct, she conceded that she may have slightly less of an advantage than she originally planned for.

Now being steered by her shoulders into the deserted precinct gym, she thinks _slightly less of an advantage _may have been a gross overestimate.

The writer scopes the room for any late-night stragglers, and once assured they're truly alone, he flips the lock to the women's dressing room, making certain there will be no unwanted interruptions.

Turning back to her, his expression is kinder than she would have expected. A clever part of his act, she reassures herself. Just an act. His mother is, after all, Martha Rodgers of Broadway notoriety.

"We don't have to do this, you know," Castle says, taking a deep, shuddering breath that betrays his usual mask of conceit. "If you don't want this, I will leave, and we don't ever have to talk about it again. I'll just call beating you twice at the firing range good enough."

Beckett doesn't quite know what to make of this. He's kept her off guard all night.

The dress. The warm reception from his family. The shockingly good behavior at the charity shindig. The respect and admiration with which he'd introduced her around to his high-flying friends, like he was actually proud of having some workaholic detective with shaky interpersonal skills on his arm.

_Oh my god._ It all clicks into place. _You've got to be kidding me._

"You don't have to _court_ me, Castle," snaps Beckett as she congratulates herself that it comes out suitably annoyed rather than freaked out. "Scared you won't… measure up?" she suggests cruelly, hoping that puts the ball back in her court.

Castle sneers confidently at her, unzipping his trousers and shoving the suspenders (if Lanie asks, she won't admit she's been distracted by them all night) to the sides, letting them fall down his broad shoulders. The writer catches her as she eyes the noticeable bulge in his black silk boxers. He halts his attention to his own clothes and reaches for her instead, his hands wrapping around her in the same way they were when they danced and his every touch through the strappy back of her dress burned.

One by one he flicks the tiny hooks on the side of her dress open, revealing inch after inch of creamy skin. Sufficiently loosened, he doesn't undo it all the way, returning to his own clothing. Shucking both his trousers and his boxers with one practiced roll of the wrist, Castle stands before her, half-naked and rapidly working on the tiny, tight buttons of his shirt while she stands awkwardly. Her angry glare lingers just a little too long, producing a throaty chuckle from her annoying shadow.

Whatever. Doesn't mean he knows how to use it.

"Detective Beckett," he purrs. She's certain the use of her title is deliberate – to remind her of what she's doing on duty, of where she's doing it, of how much control she's lost in the last 24 hours. "Ladies first."

With that, he drops to his knees, seemingly unbothered by the hard tile floor, and without preamble, hikes the gorgeous dress up, one hand wrapping around her ankle and sliding up her calf, over her knee, up the inside of her thigh.

She shudders and tells herself it's just because it's been so long. Not because of the way he looks, kneeling between her legs, staring up at her with those vexing baby blues with a grin on his stupid face. She just hasn't had a relationship since Sorenson and she's never been one for casual sex.

A nagging part of her brain asks her what the hell this is, if not casual sex. She shuts it down. She's proving a point. Though what that point is supposed to be, she can't quite remember when he brings his mouth to her inner-thigh and _sucks._

"Fucking hell, Castle, if you leave a mark…"

Chuckling darkly around the skin, he only applies more pressure, ensuring he does just that. She has to brace herself against the vanity as the reverberations shock through her, setting her already-frayed nerves ablaze in a delirious war of sensations.

"Stop me any time," Castle murmurs softly. "I won't do anything you don't want."

Fuck him. She's not backing down. He's not getting out of this.

"You could be putting your mouth to better use," she snaps, and that's all it takes.

Two fingers stroke her through the black and maroon satin and lace thong she carefully selected. To match the dress, of course. It wasn't in anticipation of him maybe seeing it. She whimpers at the contact and bites down hard on her own tongue as punishment for giving him the satisfaction.

He's nothing but a warm body to touch her, she reassures herself. It could be anyone, for how frustrated she's been. It could have been Ryan for all she cares. (But why does it buy her precious seconds of control when she briefly pictures Ryan knelt between her legs, rather than this overconfident, self-important manwhore writer?)

His ministrations are slow, earnest, controlled. He's dragging this out. Bringing his mouth to her covered centre, he drags the flat of his tongue along her, seals his lips around her wet folds (it's not for him, per se; he's just a male body and she's just frustrated) making sure that her panties won't even be wearable again tonight. Or ever. She'll never get the memory out of them. They'll have to be burned.

Even as his mouth works her, his fingers are slowly peeling the maroon lace off her slim hips, until at last she's exposed to his view and touch. A sharp intake of breath tells her at least he's not wholly unaffected by her. She's relieved. She doesn't dwell on why the thought of him _not_ being affected upsets her. After all, it would make work so much easier if he weren't fucking her with his eyes all the time. She doesn't have time to dwell; he licks one long stripe up her core and that does it.

"Fuck!" she hisses, her hands threading into his hair, messing it up. So close, been close all night. Knowing he picked that dress out for her started it. No, that wasn't it either. The moment his tongue slides into her, she's gone – reduced to a writhing mass of nerves and sex and _god, Castle!_ and he doesn't relent. She feels that jackass smirk around her when she cries his name a second or maybe tenth time, and she wants to hit him, but hitting him might make him stop. He sucks and swirls, plays her with expertise, allowing a finger to join in, thrusting it slowly into her tightened heat and curling, a slow grind that makes her gasp and pant and ache to touch him too.

"Castle, stop!" she pants as he edges her toward her second climax.

He does, immediately. Rising quickly, his eyes fill with concern.

"Beckett-" he doesn't have time to worry too much about any complaints she could have about his performance. Whirling him around, she trades places with him, grabbing his cock and sinking her mouth down on it without preamble, needing something to stave off the orgasm that was building far too quickly and intensely.

"Beckett, you don't-"

She pops his tip from her mouth momentarily, hurtling a heated glare at his stupid dazed face.

"Shut up, Castle. I was promised evidence of your shooting abilities."

The writer groans, leaning back into the counter as she did for support, when she sucks him in once again, slightly salty fluid already dripping from his tip. She finds a rhythm he seems to like, allows it when a hand rests on the back of her head, petting her hair mindlessly while he mutters nonsense.

The man never shuts up unless his mouth is fully occupied. She'll have to remember that.

"Close," he gasps out, suddenly tugging at her shoulders.

She knew what he wanted the moment he started unhooking her dress.

Shoving the bust of the dress down and exposing her small, firm breasts to him, she bows her back to give him a better view. Beckett watches in awe as he strokes himself, sliding his foreskin over the shaft with an occasional twist of his wrist.

Beckett's not far behind, thrusting two fingers inside herself and circling her thumb over the overstimulated bunch of nerves he paid such wicked attention to earlier.

Their mutual cries fill the small space, echoing off the tile as they stare into each other, a contest neither is going to admit to losing later. It's not long before he stiffens and groans out something that might have been _Kate_. She's done too, second orgasm barreling into her. It takes all her strength to stay still, to be his living target. True to form, the ropy fluid aimed perfectly to paint an obscene Pollock all over both her breasts and tightened nipples, the final jerk aimed straight between them, dead centre.

Breathing heavily, neither party says a word as they come down, silence reflecting the shared knowledge of the line they've just crossed. Eventually, Castle moves, offering a hand she takes without thinking to help her up. The evidence of his orgasm dripping slowly down her gooseflesh skin as it dries, he stares at it, any hint of arrogance gone, replaced only with not-quite-cooled desire and awe at her.

She doesn't even know why she does it. Dragging a finger through the liquid and popping it in her mouth, she tastes him, her eyes never leaving his, primal challenge and invitation all in one.

Grabbing her roughly, he forces his mouth to hers, teeth clashing as his tongue pushes past her gasping lips and she tastes herself on him. Fuck, no, he's good at this too.

If her plan was ever really to humiliate him about his performance, it's gone completely awry. She's not that good of an actress. She hasn't even had all he can give her and she knows he wouldn't disappoint. Wouldn't, she resolves; she won't give him the chance to prove it. She's already let him do too much.

Eventually they separate long enough to gather their clothes. Castle mumbles something about the interrogation – right, they have a suspect up there – and the boys wondering where they've gone to.

Nodding, she grabs her spare clothes out of her locker, and he does his best to shape his hair back into place. Without thinking, Beckett reaches up, having to stand on her toes to reach, and smooths his thick locks out, watching them both in the mirror as she does. The ritual is unnerving and she's grateful when he busies himself with his suspenders (mmmmm), and allows her to step carefully out of the now-wrinkled dress without commentary, though certainly not without watching.

Castle leaves first, giving her time to clean up and change into the spare clothes she keeps here.

"Thanks for the lesson," he smirks, voice still oozing sex on every note as he unlocks the door, "I learned _a lot_."

Jackass is back again, the considerate, almost sweet lov - sexual partner - of earlier vanishing into the air. Order has been restored to the universe.

Beckett stares at her reflection. Debauchery. Kiss-swollen lips, the rapidly-forming mark on her thigh, the red mark on her left hip where he held her a little too firmly against the vanity, the slickness between her legs contrasted with the drying fluids on her chest.

It's unbelievably wrong, she thinks to herself. Depraved, even. Beckett ignores the squirm of desire – _really!? – _as she pulls a sports bra on over her breasts without washing the evidence of their encounter away and ignores the clean pair of panties she knows she has stored in her locker, slipping her spare slacks on over her bare hips as she marches off to interrogate their suspect.

* * *

"Darling," Martha singsongs as she strides into the kitchen, "we have a visitor."

Castle looks up from his task of cooking Alexis breakfast to see Beckett there, in her street clothes and leather jacket, looking almost shy.

"Oh, pretty butch, Castle," she teases, not unkindly, the usual annoyance in her voice all but gone.

"I know, right?" Castle truly does try to keep the enthusiasm from his expression, but fails miserably. Happiness and hope bubble up inside him. It's ridiculous and he doesn't care. She came to him, when she had no reason to do so, and that means there's hope that he hasn't fucked this up irreparably.

He insists she stay for breakfast, and Martha seals the deal, casting a surreptitious, 'you owe me, kiddo' glance to her son.

He certainly does.

Conversation is easy and happy, though he doesn't contribute much. He's too busy watching Beckett interact with his family, listening to her account of the event, watching with delight as she chatters with Alexis and laughs with Martha. He thought Detective Beckett was interesting – and is she ever – but Kate proves just as much so, outside of work and the pressures her job puts her under. Pressures, he thinks almost guiltily, that he probably doesn't make any easier.

"I couldn't have done it without Castle," she admits at the end of her tale, surprising him with a genuinely appreciative look.

When Martha prances off to her rehearsal and Alexis scurries away to a study group, Castle fully expects Beckett to scramble out as quickly as she can, without the other two females to buffer between them.

Only, she doesn't.

"So," Beckett says, almost innocently, as her eyes sparkle with challenge, "you want a rematch?"

* * *

**First kink meme fill. Hopefully more to come (so to speak). Comments, questions, concerns, complaints and constructive criticisms are always appreciated and responded to.**


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